The Yes That Left a Scar

Some of us were taught that being agreeable was safer than being honest. But that kind of safety leaves marks no one sees.

I said yes
with a smile.
With a softened tone.
With a voice that betrayed me
just to keep theirs comfortable.

I didn’t want to cause a scene.
So I caused a scar
instead.

I complied when I should’ve screamed.
And they called me kind
while I kept bleeding.

If I could go back,
I’d teach my mouth how to roar
before I taught it how to please.

They kept calling it grace,
this neat way I held my wounds
like secrets, like hostages no one had to ransom.
They applauded how I stitched my voice shut,
called it maturity, humility, virtue,
as if survival was ever polite.

The truth is: I was a well-behaved funeral.
A ceremony in skin.
No flowers, no eulogy, just nodding.
Just one more good listener
who mistook being palatable for being loved.

I kept their comfort pristine
by rotting quietly in the soft chambers of my own ribs.
And they loved me for it,
loved the absence of my need
more than the presence of my pulse.

So read this like an obituary
for every time I swallowed a scream
and birthed a bruise instead.
This is my small, savage ruin of politeness.
This is my throat,
unlearning its leash.

Not all wounds are loud.
Some bleed in the quiet spaces
where we say yes when we mean no.
Healing starts when we stop calling that kindness.

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P.S.
If this stirred something in you,
it might speak to someone else too.
Feel free to pass it on.

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📚 This series will become my next book… Shadow Thoughts: The Silence That Kept Me.

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